


the adult dosage of aspirin is two pills, not one

by siyatania



Series: modern AU klance [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Comedy, Established Relationship, Fluff, Lance's grandma's ghost may or may not be present, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Moving In Together, Sickfic, if you can call it that, lazing around on the couch watching crap tv, mild bickering, the most self indulgent shit you can imagine, they do have sex but its very nondescript, they're married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 03:08:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15209528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siyatania/pseuds/siyatania
Summary: “Hey, babe, don’t blame me if you get sick too,” Lance murmurs as Keith reaches out and takes a swig of his orange juice.“Hm.” Keith hums absentmindedly in response, eyes glued to the shouting figures on screen.Lance sighs. “Oh, who am I kidding. Of course you won’t get sick. Mima just has a sick sense of humour, that’s all.”Keith and Lance move into a house Lance inherited from his deceased grandma.





	the adult dosage of aspirin is two pills, not one

**Author's Note:**

> one day i'll write a serious, respectable, plot-having fanfiction, i swear. today... is not that day.

It was the stress of moving that made him sick.

At least, that’s Lance’s story, and he’s sticking with it. Not too hard of a resolution to hold when Keith’s finally given up on force-feeding him maca powder and a bunch of those other Caucasian-Pinterest-Mom superfoods he’s obsessed with. (They're capital B Bullshit, Lance should know, he was the one of them with a science degree.)  

Or perhaps it's partially guilt that’s keeping his husband acquiescent and quietly stroking his hair as they watch mind-numbing straight-to-netflix B movies. It had, after all, been _Keith’s_ idea to buy the bed – fine, that was stretching it a bit. But Keith _had_ pointed out that they were both too big for Lance’s old bed and dropped some bowling ball-sized hints that despite fixing it up himself several times, his own bed was on its last leg.

Or maybe it’s not stress but the late autumn weather, and the fact that it was the perfect time of year for misjudging the weather and running out without a jacket and coming home with both furniture _and_ a runny nose in tow.

Whatever the reason, the fact remains that the day after he moved his Mima’s furniture out and the first few pieces of his – _their, he thinks happily_ – furniture in, he’d woken up with a fever. Nothing too serious, and the only thing that stood out against the usual slow pace sick days tend to have was the fact that by the second day (of fever-induced lazy lounging), they’d had sex twice as often on their new couch as they had in their new bed (a number that, so far, remained firmly at ‘one’)

Despite the fever and runny nose, it is officially three times in favour of the couch by the time their queue finishes and dinner is eaten. Keith settles back in after washing up and curls up against him under the blanket, having long abandoned his actual pants in favour of boxers and one of Lance’s old college hoodies. Not the most glamorous or sexy outfit Lance has ever seen, but it serves the purpose of keeping his husband warm as they watch the latest episode of Chopped.

“Hey, babe, don’t blame me if you get sick too,” Lance murmurs as Keith reaches out and takes a swig of his orange juice.

“Hm.” Keith hums absentmindedly in response, eyes glued to the shouting figures on screen.

Lance sighs. “Oh, who am I kidding. Of course you won’t get sick. Mima just has a sick sense of humour, that’s all.”

Keith snorts at that, rolling his head onto Lance’s shoulder, but with how intertwined they are it would be hard to miss the telltale tensing of muscles in his back. Just when Lance starts to wonder what he said wrong and where he said it, his husband breaks the silence.

“D’you think she didn’t like it when we moved her furniture out?”

Lance makes another put-upon sound as he snakes a hand under the hoodie and around Keith’s waist, rolling his eyes even though no one can see them. “Nah. If anything, she’s pissed off because I gave it all to Tía Valeria. But she’ll get over it… eventually.”

Keith makes a soft hum of acknowledgement, sliding his head down to rest on Lance’s sweater-covered chest.  “Good. Because somehow I doubt they’d let us return this couch now.”

Lance chuckles at that. “Why? What they don’t know won’t hurt them, babe.”

“Wait, so you _do_ want us return the couch?”

“No way. That couch was old and shitty. This one doesn’t dig into my back when you’re topping and you –"

“-Lance.” Keith huffs, still weirdly entranced by the action on the screen. “I’m trying to watch this.”

“Hey, I’m bored. And when I’m bored, my attention diverts elsewhere, if you know what I’m saying.” He slides his hands further around his husband’s waist for effect.

Lance doesn’t so much see but _notice_  Keith’ smirk. He’s had a sixth sense for that particular expression since college. “Didn’t realise the contents of your underwear were worthy of so much attention.”

“I’m _sick_ , you asshat!” Lance tries digging his fingers into Keith’s sides but, _of course,_ he’s known for ages that the dipshit he married isn’t even the slightest bit ticklish. He settles for stealing the remote and flicking away from Chopped through the rest of the free-to-air channels before tossing it to the side in exasperation.

Keith, to his credit, doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest. He lifts himself from his spot to kiss Lance on the cheek, taking his face in his hands and smoothing damp brown hair backwards with his thumbs. He’s smiling and he looks breathtakingly, _annoyingly_ , beautiful.

“So…” Lance begins, illness not the only reason his breath catches briefly in his throat, “Do you or do you not want to go for four times?”

“ _Four_ times?!”

“I _mean_ , second time today, if you want to get technical. Four times total.” He explains.

“I was about to say.” That annoying, fond smile is back. “I love you, but there’s no way you have the stamina when you’re healthy for four times, much less when you’re-"

Whatever program is showing on the screen, turned down so low that it’s almost muted, ends right as Lance closes the distance between them and kisses Keith hard, hands sliding further up his back.

The TV remains rightly forgotten for much of the rest of the night. Lance has much better things to watch, after all (because it wasn’t just the fever making his vision swim anymore.)

He only notices that it’s still on when his head flops back onto the couch, his breathing hard and his nose stuffed up, hot and overwhelmed. The haze from his vision clears just enough for him to be able to see his Mima’s favourite character in his Mima’s favourite scene from his Mima’s favourite episode of his Mima’s favourite telenovela staring directly into the camera to the soundtrack of Keith’s soft, throaty moans.

It was bad, sure, but it would have been so much worse with the volume up. Not so much worse than a few moments later when he shudders and comes, gripping Keith’s hips hard and choking out _you goddamn evil bitch_ as he does so.

A very long and convoluted explanation later has Keith hauling him up to the bedroom, alternating between conclusions that he’s delusional, septic, going into shock and/or possessed. Lance smacks him on the butt and grumbles out a defensive comment about his mullet’s illegality in over seventy UN-recognised countries as he vanishes into the bathroom.

He’s nearly asleep by the time Keith finishes in the shower and slides into bed next to him, pressing warm toes into Lance’s calves as equally-warm fingers sift through towel-dried curls.

“You’re still warm.”

“Hngh.”

“Have you taken enough aspirin?”

“Yes, mama. But for _some reason_ I don’t have enough _sleep_.”

“That’s your own fault for being too busy trying to corrupt nice, brand-new couches and set impossible records,” Keith murmurs, kissing right under Lance’s ear. It’s a point he can’t argue (both the statement and the kiss), so he acquiesces by tossing a mumbled _I’ll show you impossible_ over his shoulder before re-settling in.

The aspirin’s starting to work its magic on those dull aches, and Keith is warm against his back (a different kind of warm than the fever altogether.) He’s nearly asleep when he hears his husband mumble into his ear a few minutes later.

“Lance.”

“Yes, love?”

“I don’t think she would have minded. You know, about the furniture.” He plants a kiss on Lance’s shoulder. “I think… she would have maybe even liked the couch we picked out.”

He knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that it’s not really just about the furniture. It was never just about the furniture. But for all his trying, Lance has yet to figure out _why_ it wasn’t just about the furniture. He feels like now’s the time that he’s almost got a grasp on it, like the answer’s right there, sliding between his skin and the down comforter, across the arm slung around his waist, seeping under the sheets and into the brand new mattress-

The feeling fades with a kiss to the side of his neck and Keith’s arm tightening around him, leaving him in a deep haze, hovering on the edge of unconsciousness – and really, who cares what she thought now? All his Mima cared about when she was alive was that he was clothed, fed and happy. At the moment he was indeed clothed; and fed hadn’t been a challenge the past few days with his mullet husband doing all the cooking. And there that feeling is again, sliding between his shoulder blades, because right now, sick and feverish with Keith pressed close and warm against his back, he really is –

He really, truly is happy.

 

 

 

And her taste in furniture sucked, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading...if you liked this for some reason please comment!!
> 
> please direct all scathing remarks to @siyatania on twitter thanks,,,


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